


keep my head from going under

by casualsaturdays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester-centric, Episode: s07e13 The Slice Girls, POV Dean Winchester, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualsaturdays/pseuds/casualsaturdays
Summary: Dean's fine. Sam's half out of his mind with Lucifer hallucinations, everyone else he's ever cared about is dead. But really, he's fine, so stop asking.-or-Dean hits his breaking point after Sam kills Emma.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	keep my head from going under

Thoughts racing as tires eat up pavement beneath him, Frank’s words cut through the rest, echoing in his head. _Decide to be fine till the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you're alive and that's your job. Then do it again the next week._

Dean could only scoff, as if that isn’t exactly what he’s been doing for years now. He’s been plastering on his smile at least since he got back from hell, if not longer. But lately, he hasn’t been able to find the energy to maintain the façade. 

_Smile because you’re alive_.

But is he? All this time and effort spent pretending to be happy, when did he go from living to only pretending to be alive? Sure, his heart is pumping, lungs are taking in oxygen, blood is flowing through his veins. But how long has it been since he’s _felt_ alive. Months? Longer? Certainly not since Bobby died. Had it really been six weeks? And the only lead they’ve gotten in that time is a field in the middle of nowhere. No, even before Bobby. Hell, Bobby had basically said as much, _I've seen a lot of hunters live and die. You're starting to talk like one of the dead ones_. It was one of the last things he said to Dean, before-

So yeah, even before Bobby.

It’s not like Dean hasn’t gotten used to the people close to him dying. But the hits just won’t stop coming. You can only expect someone to pull themselves up so many times before they just stay down, and Dean’s _tired_.

_Then do it again the next week._

So maybe he’s been feeling way since Sam’s wall came down, or since Cas walked into that reservoir. Cas, his best friend, his- Insisting that he would make it up to Dean, redeem himself. Dean didn’t even get the chance to tell him that _of course_ he would forgive him, that they would have found a way to move past this. But before he knew it, all that was left of Cas was his dirty, bloody coat floating in the water.

Everything since has just been chipping away at any strength he had left.

Who did Osiris think he was, bringing Jo into this? It’s not like Dean needed to be reminded of her death, as if he didn’t feel that guilt every day since. The people he’s failed, their names are ingrained in his head like a litany offered to an unhearing or uncaring god. Jess. John. Ash. Henricksen. Ellen. Jo. Pam. Lisa. Ben. Cas. Bobby. Sam. To name a few. And now Emma.

_Then do it again the next week._

Not to mention the leviathans wearing their faces, crossing the country and leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. He and Sam have been able to operate in more-or-less obscurity since they “died” in that police station, but having to hide, stashing Baby for the time being, it feels like missing a piece of himself. Under better conditions, it’d be fine, but he’s wearing a bit thin these days – how many more pieces of himself can he cut off until there’s nothing left. And so if Dean got more satisfaction out of decapitating the copy of himself than he probably should have, well, who has to know.

_Then do it again the next week._

And now, the cherry on top. Emma. Sam can insist until he’s blue in the face that she wasn’t really Dean’s daughter, but, _really_ , she was. Or at least she could have been, given the chance. She hadn’t hurt anyone. She couldn’t help how she was born, Sam out of anyone should have understood that, shown some goddamn empathy. But no, she’s Dean’s daughter, so instead of getting a chance at any kind of life, she gets a bullet to the gut. Sam might as well have called Dean crazy for feeling any sort of connection to his flesh-and-blood daughter, but a nagging part of Dean can’t help but wonder whether this was payback on Sam’s part – would Sam have killed Emma if Dean hadn’t killed Amy? Would he have been so cruel about it after the fact?

Dean stormed out right about then. Got in the car and hit the road, no destination in mind, but the purr of an engine and the promise of distance between him and Sam were what he needed then. In theory, at least. In reality, the busted stereo leaves Dean with just his spiraling thoughts. His phone rang a few times, Sam’s number flashing on the display, before Dean turned it off and tossed it in the back seat. His blood-alcohol level’s barely been below the legal limit at all these past few weeks, and Bobby’s flask in his pocket is a heavy reminder of that, but even Dean’s not dumb enough to pull it out while driving – his face hasn’t been off the front page all that long, the last thing he needs right now is to get pulled over. So he white-knuckles the wheel and drives.

_Then do it again the next week._

And the next week. And the next. And the one after that.

How many more weeks like this did Dean have left in the tank. It feels like he’s been running on fumes for months with no end in sight, it’s only a matter of time before he’s out. Hell, there have been a few close calls already, where he just hasn’t had any fight left in him. Would he have been able to take a crowbar to Jo’s ghost? He was seconds away from becoming a bloody smear on some hunks of rubble and a perfunctory salt circle was the only defense Dean bothered with. He meant it when he told her that it was okay, to do what she had to do. It would have been easier, even. Certainly no less than he deserved. So it goes.

Glancing at the exit sign, Dean discovers he’s closer than he realized to the warehouse where he left Baby. Cutting across lanes to catch the exit, Dean drives with purpose now that he has a destination in mind, shutting out his thoughts.

With only a brief stop at a liquor store off the highway, Dean quickly arrives at the dilapidated warehouse that has been the impala’s home for the past couple months. Aside from a boat that is presumably docked at the nearby marina during warmer seasons, Baby is the only thing here.

Settling into the back seat with the only earthly possessions he brought – Bobby’s flask and Cas’ coat – along with the scotch he picked up on the way, Dean tries to relax. With a cassette in the tape deck and a cool breeze flowing from the opposite window, he feels more comfortable here than he has in a long while. It isn’t long before he’s finished off the flask and cracked open the bottle. The alcohol helps to slow his thoughts from a sprint to a jog, but does little to take away their bite, letting him linger on each thought until it repeats like a mantra carved into his brain.

Wincing inwardly, Dean recalls the voicemail he left for Bobby after his house burned down. _If you’re gone, I swear, I am going to strap my Beautiful Mind brother into the car and I’m gonna drive us off the pier. You asked me how I was doing? Well, not good!_ At the time it didn’t seem like things could go to shit any more than they already had, and yet here he is. Dean was already barely holding himself together with duct tape and safety pins since the last apocalypse – now the tape’s peeling and the pins are tearing at the seams and what’s the fucking point in sewing himself back together if the threads just get more unraveled every time he tries.

Dean looks down, one hand clutching the coat in his lap, the other the bottle. He takes a long swig, eyes not leaving the familiar tan fabric. It’s musty now, not having aired out properly since he pulled it out of the water. Stained with blood and black goo that has long since dried. He tried to get rid of it, stood over a fire until his eyes were burning and his face was wet, _from the smoke,_ he told himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it in the fire. Two of the most important people in his life, and all he has to remember them by is a dinged-up flask and a dirty coat. Hell, aside from the clothes on his back and the liquor in his hand, is there anything Dean has that’s really his? Even his father’s car, at one point it was a home, it was freedom, but some days it feels like a tomb, like the walls are closing in around him and he can’t escape, there’s nowhere to escape to.

Surrounded on all sides by the ghost of his father, and kept company by the ghosts of his father-figure and his best friend, Dean really can’t be blamed when his mind starts to wander. The thing about strapping Sam down and driving them off a pier was said in anger, in fear. But really, there are worse ways to go – he can’t imagine that drowning could be any less pleasant than being torn to shreds by hellhounds. And Sam’s doing just fine without him, much better than expected at least, now that he’s figured out what’s real and what’s not. And with no way to stop the leviathans in sight, they’ll all probably be dead within months anyways. It’s not like Dean has any delusions about what awaits him on the other side, might as well hop on the express elevator downstairs now and save everyone the trouble.

It’s that train of thought that has Dean fumbling into the front seat, mostly-empty bottle tossed somewhere on the passenger seat, flask still in his pocket, coat still in his lap as he starts the car. It takes a few tries, having sat here for months unused, but once she’s up and running, he’s off. The marina he passed on the way here, just a chain-link fence stands between the road and the pier, nothing his Baby can’t handle. Hearing Bobby’s voice in his head nearly has Dean swerving off the road, but he recovers. Must have been the alcohol or the stress, making him hear things, because it’s gone just as quickly. Dean tightens his grip on the wheel as the water comes into view.

Dean braces for the first impact with the fence, accelerating, and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the car lurches over the edge, falling for a split second before hitting the water. It can’t be more than a minute before water starts spilling in through the rear window, still cracked. Dean blindly fumbles around for the bottle as he feels water in his shoes, as Bobby’s voice again competes for airtime in his head. He tunes him out. Decades of training and fighting and suffering, and all he has to show for it is a trail of dead loved ones. Dean’s hardly the first hunter to go out by his own hand, not the last.

It isn’t until the water’s up to his neck that it really hits him – this is it. He probably should have called Sam, or at least turned his phone back on for him to track, but he’s a smart kid, he’ll figure it out sooner or later.

The water on his face is cold, but it brings relief. Like a cool rain on a hot summer rain, it washes over him. His lungs are burning as his body fights, but in his mind this fight was over a long time ago. Dean breathes in a gulp of water and lets go.

-

Choking, gasping, Dean claws at his throat as he rolls on his side and spits out a mouthful of water. The pavement digs into his cheek and he knows he’s shaking, but he feels boneless.

“Are you trying to kill me again?!” Dean startles, eyes unfocused on the figure standing above him. Eventually he manages to sit up, not without a coughing fit, taking in his surroundings. He can’t see much from here, at the bottom of the boat ramp, water lapping at his shoes.

“Bobby?” His voice is hoarse in his ears. Squinting up, Dean can make out the familiar face. “What are you… Am I dead?” He tries to remember his time in the veil with Tessa all those years ago, but it’s all fuzzy.

“Damn near, ya’ idjit. What, it seemed like a nice night for a long walk off a short pier? What were you thinking?”

“I-” Dean looks away, shame pooling in his gut, but confusion wins out. “How- What are you doing here? We burned you. Did you get stuck or…” Dean feels for the flask, still in his pocket.

“I _wanted_ to stay. Clearly you still need my help.” Dean looks up to see Bobby flickering, “Damn it! Manifesting ain’t easy. Talk to your broth-”

And just like that, Dean was alone again.

He sits up fully, still shivering in soaked clothes, and let his head rest between his knees for a few breaths. When he looks up, he can’t help the mirthless laugh that escapes. “You again.” The Impala has vanished beneath the water, but that all too familiar trench coat is floating, inching closer to the edge of the water. Dean balls it up, just as he did before, and starts walking back towards the warehouse.

_Decide to be fine till the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you're alive and that's your job. Then do it again the next week._


End file.
